The Case of the Three Blind Mice
by MisplacedHyperQuill
Summary: Sherlock has a new case- and his favourite kind on top of that. But what is happening behind the scenes between him and his one and only pathologist? What did he do this time? Or is it not his fault for once? Read to find out ;) Based on the play Mousetrap. Sherlolly; maybe John/OC Read and Review!
1. The First Mouse

Coat in hand, the middle-aged woman strode into the dark room after flinging her hat carelessly nearby. Flicking on a single lamp to dimly illuminate the fashionable, richly decorated abode, she walked over to the landline before picking up the wireless for her daily dose of dirty gossip. Within minutes, her laughs, gasps and loud opinions echoed around the walls of the flat.

She didn't hear the door open.

She didn't hear the other person walk in.

A gust of wind surprised her, wracking her body with shivers. She spun around, glaring, as if the cold would be frightened by it, letting out a huff at the open door.

"Nancy, let me call you back in a mo."

As she hung up, she walked to the door, her heels clacking rhythmically on the wooden boards.

"Mrs. Collins!" she called "Did you need something?" she called out into the hallway. Her landlady did not answer. "Old bitch." The woman muttered to herself before walking in, wrapping her arms around herself to keep out the cold.

Kicking the door shut with a heeled foot, she glanced out the window. There was merely a white fog of snow to look at. There was no way to see out- or in.

Another shiver racked her body.

"Fucking snow." She swore as she lit a fag. Yanking away her shoes with one hand, she stumbled over to the front door to turn on more lights. The light betrayed a human shadow, not hers, on the plaster barely three inches away from her. With a yelp, she turned around.

"Who the hell- _you_." She exclaimed. "What are you- how- why are you…what in the name of hell are you doing here?"

The intruder stepped closer, coming into the light. Silent.

"Get out. Now. I will call the police." she exclaimed. Fear crept into her as the intruder continued stepping towards her. She backed away, barely making three steps before her back was against the wall.

Seconds later, the intruder was barely a foot away.

"What are you doing?" Hands wound themselves around her neck. Her eyes widened. _No_. "No- no, please, don't. I'm sorry, _please_." She started babbling whatever thoughts filled her mind. She felt a warm fluid creep down her leg

"_Please_." She was pulled forward and then shoved back into the wall. There was a dampness behind her head.

One hand left her throat and fisted itself in her hair. Suddenly there was a painful pull and she was on the floor, dragged away. She screamed, pleading, clawing at the assailant. Blood came away from her fingers were tufts of her hair was being pulled out. They stopped, and a weight settled on her abdomen. The figure blocked the light.

"No, no, please." She whimpered as his face drew inches from her own. She smelled the coffee and chips in his breath. He drew away and breathed a sigh of relief. There was a sharp sound and a glint caught her eye from his right hand.

"_No!_" she screamed again, only to be slapped, hard. A cloth was wrapped around her, as a gag, muffling all screams. She cried out, sobbing. The sight of the blade emptied whatever was left in her bladder.

The silver blade descended onto her right hand. She screamed. The knife broke skin, and soon enough, bone.

Fingers dug into her neck painfully. She coughed, trying to get air into her lungs. Her vision was blacking. The pain from her right hand was unbearable. She reached up and clawed with her left hand, trying in vain to get away.

She tried to beg, to plead, but soon enough, it became too painful to speak. Her chest was burning, about to burst, her head spinning, vision darkening. The overwhelming scent of her own urine and blood intensified the reality of her situation. Her kicking and clawing began to weaken, to fail.

Warm tears dripped down her cheeks as she took a long look at her murderer. She dropped her hand, and gave up kicking. The pain took over.

Then, there was nothing.

.oOOo.

Tapping her pen incessantly on her desk, Molly glanced irritably at her wrist for the third time.

**18:54**

She groaned to herself, biting her bottom lip hard. _Universe why do you hate me_ she wondered as she signed off another batch of paperwork. Five down, one to go. _One too many_.

Slamming her hands on the desk, Molly pushed her chair back and stood up. Enough- she'd do the last one tomorrow. Nodding to herself, the pathologist grabbed her jumper- the one with the cherries on, and shrugged it on over her office blouse as she stepped out of her office and into the adjoining morgue.

Immediately, her eyes fell on the figure hunched over the microscope on the metal tables. He'd lost weight, and his body looked exhausted. Molly almost offered a coffee, then berated herself and turned away, hoping he hadn't noticed.

From the sigh the escaped his blogger, Molly knew he did. She heard the older man walk up behind her, but didn't acknowledge it herself.

"Molly." Now she did. Turning around, the pathologist gave her best smile.

"John," she answered "Anything the matter?"

Eyes flitting nervously between the detective and woman, John swallowed.

"If things are getting too uncomfortable, feel free to kick us out." He offered, voice dropping volume and octave. Molly smiled at her friend's concern.

"Watson, you and I both know that Dr Hooper wouldn't do that. She is a professional pathologist who doesn't let personal life affect her work- most of the time. And _please_, whispering won't keep anything from me."

Silence fell in the cold morgue.

"He's right." She said, breaking the awkwardness "It's fine- stay as long as you need." She took a last glance at the detective- he hadn't moved from his previous position and turned away.

"I don't know what he did to you," he muttered "but you shouldn't put up with it."

Molly fisted her hand and shut her eyes, inhaling. Still facing away from both men, she said, loud and clear.

"I'm not putting up with it. The relationship Mr Holmes and I have, from now on, is purely professional. Nothing more."

Silently praising herself at her bravery, Molly smiled. She allowed herself to pretend the awkward silence hadn't befallen them, or that she had officially exterminated a relationship she held so dear before, or even the stares on her back- one of which was a cool, disbelieving, icy blue.

.oOOo.

"Please, Molly?"

"Mary, I don't know- it really depends."

"_Please_- Mark and I really need the help."

Molly sighed, unconsciously scratching the back of her tabby's ears. Maybe this would do her good. Getting away from everything.

"Just a week." She said finally, then immediately holding the phone at arms length so as to not get deafened by the other woman's squeals.

"Oh, thank you Molly, _thank you_."

"When do you want me up there?"

"A.S.A.P."

"You'll have to give me a few weeks- getting leave is difficult with Christmas around the corner."

"Of course, of course. We're only opening in a couple weeks anyway, but even so, we're already quite booked!"

"Mhmm- Mary, I'll call you back once I get set dates. Most I can get is about a week, by the way. Give my love to Mark."

"Will do, Molls. Again, _thank_ you." Molly smiled.

"Anything for family, I suppose."

Hanging up, Molly stared aimlessly at her phone for a few minutes, before setting it down on the table and walking to the kitchen.

Maybe going is a bad idea, she decided as she reached for a mug and tea bags. Her work needed her. After setting her kettle to boil, she walked back to her room to change into a ratty t-shirt for sleep. Opening the cupboard door she picked her frayed fabric of choice and shrugged it on, when something caught her eye.

Dark green. Like _his_ eyes were, sometimes, when they were together in bed as they caught their breaths. The dress shirt lay there, folded over the back of her chair. She was meant to give it back to him. Stumbling in the dark over to it, she picked it up, feeling the soft fabric under her fingertips.

Rolling it up, she flung the ball of fabric as hard as she could. It landed with a thump on the other side of the room.

Briskly walking back towards the kitchen again, Molly turned of the kettle and grabbed a glass as she opened the fridge door. Pouring herself whatever alcohol she had gotten out, Molly retrieved her phone.

"Mike, sorry to be calling so late- I'm sorry, I wanted to take leave in a couple weeks…a family thing…about a week…well I haven't been off in almost a year…thanks Mike…goodnight."

.oOOo.

_The dead body of a woman, Marion Rutherford, aged 52, was found in her apartment here in London. Foul play has been suspected, but no further details have been reported._

"So, what can you say about this?"

Lestrade took another gulp of his coffee. Molly rubbed the bags under her eyes. Both yawned. Nothing screamed 'oh joy' like a murder at three in the fucking morning.

"She died around a day ago. She suffered from blunt force trauma and the blood loss from-" Molly gulped "-her lost pinky, though the C.O.D is asphyxiation. They are harsh bruises, though undefined- not buy any rope or fabric as I can tell. No traces of any flesh, or other materials alien to her on the body, other than a few black fibres under her nails- she put up a good fight, I'm guessing. Tox screens are not out of the ordinary, but I can tell you that she was quite drunk. Oh, and the, uh, finger, well, it was cut out be and ordinary, very sharp kitchen knife, but it was a good cut. Almost professional."

Lestrade nodded, before yawning again.

"Is Sherlock coming in?" Molly asked casually. Lestrade looked to her in concern.

"If it's alright with you." Molly groaned into her hands.

"Honestly, people have to _stop_ treating me like I'm china. I am a grown woman and for Pete's sake, I'm the one who ended whatever relationship we had." Lestrade looked around uncomfortably.

"I take that as a yes, then."

"Oh, shut up." Molly answered, whacking his arm with a smile.

Sherlock entered a few minutes later, followed by his blogger. Both sported scowls.

"Lestrade, I refuse to work with Anderson. Stupid idiot can't even make an affair with _Donovan_ work without his wife finding out. Idiots- all of them!"

"Sherlock, please just shut up." John groaned, "It's all he's been ranting on about the whole cab ride here." He continued to Molly and Lestrade.

"Anderson is a good worker, Sherlock. Just shut up and stop being a baby- we all want to go back to our beds."

Muttering something darkly under his breath, the detective strode over to the table.

"I need to see the body." He stated. Lestrade and John looked to Molly, who looked tiredly back at them. She pulled down the white sheet.

Sherlock's eyes flitted over the corpse for a few seconds before looking up and turning away.

"Murderer is someone strong. Much taller than the victim was, and was wearing gloves when he killed her. Killer is man- needed to be strong- Ms Rutherford was a fighter. She also knew the murderer."

"What?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Lestrade.

"There was no sign of forced entry in the apartment. The lock wasn't picked, the window wasn't opened. The murderer walked in through the front door. He used the spare key to unlock it."

"Spare key? There was no spare key. And Rutherford's enemies consisted of barmy old gossip-loving old ladies. No living immediate family either."

"Oh for God's sakes." Sherlock groaned. "If you're going to make me explain _everything_, shut up, and listen."

Lestrade and John glared murderously at the detective. Molly looked away.

"He knew the spare key was 'hidden' on the top ledge of the door. No one cleans the top ledge of the door, but if any of those idiots cared to check, the line of dust was interrupted near the middle, approximately the size of a key. The killer used it, and kept it. How would he know that the key was there? Because he knew her, personally. It also explains the violence with her death. She was bashed against a wall; tufts of her hair and scalp were pulled out; her finger was cut off; she was strangled, painfully. She died, in pain, and fully aware. She was tortured.

"Now why would someone torture a completely ordinary middle-aged woman like that? We know the killer is male, at least six feet tall, angry, with surgical experience by the looks of that stub on her right hand. Her friends are useless, and she has no immediate family- or so we think. Research her and call me when you get something."

He moved to leave the morgue, when he almost collided into Anderson. Both glared at each other. If Molly didn't know better, she's have thought that they were going to go at it like dogs over a piece of meat.

"Wait, you want in on this? I thought this would be too boring for you." John interrupted. Sherlock looked to John. Molly didn't notice the manic look in his eyes or the wide grin on his face until then.

"There's going to be another murder." She said. All eyes turned to her. Warmth travelled upwards and settled on her face. She pursed her lips and averted her eyes.

How ironic that they settled right on Sherlock's.

Though their gazes met for a split second, Molly caught the surprise in his stare right before it masked itself into indifference. If anything, time with Sherlock made her more observant off the detective.

"She's right." Sherlock stated, turning away. With that, the moment was over. Molly swallowed and tried not to take him acknowledging her in third person to heart "There will be another murder."

Again, his eyes, today a pulsating green, flitted back to Molly, probably wondering how she had guessed. Again, Molly felt the heat rush up.

"Another murder? What the hell makes you think _that_?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock smirked.

"The killer told us."

"Pardon?" Molly sighed, putting cradling her head in her hand. _Oh, Anderson_ "Was the way he strangled her some sort of Psychopath Code for 'I'm gonna kill someone else'?"

"Anderson-" Lestrade warned.

"Or maybe where he left the body told him."

"It was the message he left, actually."

"Message? What message?" Lestrade frowned.  
"The one he left in her handbag."

"There wasn't any message in her handbag"

"That's because I took it out." Sherlock reached into his pocket and retrieved a piece of card.

"You can't remove evidence from the crime scene! You contaminated it!" Anderson yelled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Contaminated it from what?"

"DNA. Fingerprints. Anything!" Sherlock snorted.

"The killer knew what he was doing." He retorted "It isn't like you're the murderer- _he_ was actually of _average_ intelligence."

With that, Anderson lost all controlled and leapt.

He didn't get to far. Sherlock merely stepped back and let the other man fall flat on his face. John pulled him up to his face.

"Let me go, or so help me-"

"Anderson, calm _down_. GO, now."

"_No_, you let me-"

Molly walked over to the men.

"C'mon, Anderson." Molly soothed, lightly patting his shoulder "Let's get you a cuppa, yeah? You can go back to Sally then, okay?"

She looked to John and wordlessly told him to let go. He obeyed and Molly grabbed hold of the forensic scientist and steered him out of the morgue.

"I don't understand," He said, non-to-softly, as they walked out "how you could've had _anything positive_ with that bloody git." Molly stiffened, knowing everyone else had heard that as well, and didn't turn around or answer. Instead, she led him out.

"Go get that cuppa of yours." She said, before re-entering the morgue.

Thankfully conversation had restarted by then and Lestrade was scolding Sherlock.

"It still isn't alright to steal evidence."

"It wasn't stealing."

"It _was,_ dammit Sherlock."

"Do you want to see it, or not?"

Molly moved to John.

"Lovers quarrel." He muttered. Molly giggled.

"I would know." John looked to her worriedly, before catching her grin. Both began to laugh, catching the others' attentions.

"What's so funny?" Lestrade asked.

"Nothing, nothing." Molly said, sobering. John snorted, causing both to giggle again.

"Okay, okay." The doctor finally said "Sherlock let's see what the note says, then."

Molly caught the detective looking at her again. Both looked away at the same time. _It's like we're teenagers again_, she thought with annoyance. Sherlock handed the card over to Lestrade, who frowned and handed it to John, who repeated the actions to Molly.

It was cheap card that could be found at any stationary shop. It was white-washed with a single line of music printed onto it. Molly scanned it quickly glanced up with recognition.

"Three blind mice."

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"This line of music. It's three blind mice."

She was met with three blank looks.

"You know, the nursery rhyme?" Molly sighed, before shyly humming the tune. Lestrade and John nodded in recognition. Sherlock carried on looking blank.

"It's a famous nursery rhyme." She offered. He nodded.

"What are the words?"

The D.I and doctor thought for a while.

"I don't actually remember it all that well." Molly rolled her eyes.

"Three blind mice." She sang hurriedly.

"Three blind mice.

"See how the run. See how they run.

"They all ran after the farmer's wife,

"Who cut off their tails with a carving knife,

"Did you ever see such a sight in your life,

"As three blind mice?"

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, before turning away.

"Bake it." He said. Lestrade ran a hand over his face.

"Care to explain why?"

"Invisible ink made of lime juice. Haven't any of you noticed the smell?" Now that he said it, Molly did. "Bake it. That's how you read it."

Later in the day, Lestrade returned for the paperwork to write his report.

"What did the message say then?"

"Classified, Molls."

"Oh, come on. As if I'd tell. Besides. I already know we're dealing with a serial killer." Molly smirked, knowing she'd won.  
"All it said was: **Three blind mice. One is gone, down to two.**"

"How cheerful." Molly provided. Lestrade laughed, humourlessly.

"I heard you're taking leave."

"I am, yes. Looks like the next murder will be under Thompson's hands." It ceased to scare Molly how casually she spoke of these things. It came with the job.

"Sherlock hates Thompson."

"Sherlock hates everyone who isn't you, Mrs Hudson, John or his mother."

"He doesn't hate you, you know." Molly looked away. "So where're you headed off to?"

"Not far, actually. Just out of the city. My cousins've just converted an old family mansion of theirs into a B and B. God knows why, though, and they want my help with it."

"That the only reason you're going?" Molly looked down. "So, that's a 'no'. Honestly, Molly, what did he do to you?"

"_Nothing_. It was me, I swear."  
"What happened?"

"I want to tell you, I do-"

"So tell me. Molls, we've been friends for ages- longer than he's been around, that's for sure."

"I know, it's just that- look, I promise I will tell you, soon. When I'm not so embarrassed with myself."

Lestrade gave her a long look, before accepting defeat.  
"I just hope you know that you can trust me."

"I do, Greg. How's Moira?" Lestrade winced.  
"It's going bad, again." Molly smiled sympathetically.

"It's almost time for lunch."

"It's ten in the morning, Molls."

"Like I said: _almost_. Want to go grab something? We can talk about it." The D.I smiled thankfully.

"Let's go."

**Hello! So I'm back after a period of school, work, homework and insane bouts of literature coursework and god damn writer's block. Then I watched Mousetrap and THIS idea came to me.  
**

**Well, this will be my first time attempting mystery so tell me what you think so far, and any criticism and/or ideas are welcome!**

**Please do review, it will make my sad, dreary day- flames are welcome as well :)) whatever rocks your boat.**

**Love you my lovely readers,**

**-Ash :)**


	2. Morstan Manor

**Thank you so much to Rocking the Redhead, CreamoCrop, Empress of Verace, NicoleJacobs, persephonelove, .night and koryandrs for the lovely reviews :D**

_Smiling, the young blonde boy stood between his older brother and sister. Each clasped one of his soft, white hands in their older gloved ones. While he smiled at the prospect of new family, they're mouths were thin emotionless lines._

They should be happy_, he thought, _we get to have a Mummy and Daddy._ Of course, young Charles did not understand that his real Mummy and Daddy were gone, and that _no one_ would replace them. He also didn't know that _this _Mummy and Daddy weren't like the _other_ Mummies and Daddies._

_He hadn't heard the rumours, or listened to the stories._

_He would soon experience how true they were._

_They were made to stand, to walk to the front where the old, nasty woman in the stupid wig was seated. He thought she looked nasty. First of all was the stupid white wig, then the ugly giant black coat. The woman also wasn't very nice. Her voice was gravelly and mean. Her ice-like eyes were an ugly, bright and piercing blue. Her face was wrinkly and ancient looking. She didn't look nice. No, not at all._

_Charles decided she was one of the wicked witches from the books in the orphanage._

_Soon, he was standing across a couple- his new Mummy and Daddy. He beamed._

"_Hello, young ones." His new Mummy's voice was sweet and tinkly, like a fairy's. She looked like one too, tall, pretty, fair. His new Daddy was big and strong and nice-looking, like a Daddy should be._

"_Say hello to your new parents, children." The witch scolded "Children these days- so rude."_

_Charles noticed a few stray strands of dark hair underneath the ugly wig.  
"Hello." His sister muttered. She kept her bright green eyes to the floor._

_Pulling away from his startled siblings, he ran towards his new parents and hugged their legs. They let out noises of surprise._

"_Woah, there champ." His accent was funny "I see you're excited."_

"_He is, isn't he?" his wife laughed._

"_It's cute on little boys, but in a young man like you? We'll just have to beat it out of you."_

_Charles blushed as his parents laughed, ruffling his hair._

_He didn't notice his brother and sister exchange worried glances._

.oOOo.

Paying her fare plus tips to the cabbie who had graciously helped her with her bags to the front door despite the heavy snowfall, Molly rang the doorbell of the familiar estate. There was bustling, a few crashes, then the dark mahogany door swung open.

The blonde woman broke into a grin.

"Oh thank god."

Molly chuckled and raised her eyebrows, indicating to her bags. Mary Morstan's eyes widened.

"Oh right, yeah." She said, opening the door wider. Molly picked up her bags and hauled her bags into the lobby of the mansion.

The pathologist looked up to find that her cousin had disappeared through the open doorway at the end of the corridor. Huffing, she grabbed her bags in both hands and ambled her way through.

She smiled as she entered the familiar hall, taking in the brown oak of the walls and high ceilings, the soft plushy armchairs and sofas, even the ugly chandelier her late aunt had always had a love for. The smile turned into a grin and chuckle as she watched her the blonde clutch her hair, a frantic look on her face as she flitted around.

"Mary, calm down." Mary halted and turned to glare.

"Calm down? Calm _down_? The first guests are arriving _tonight_, and nothing is done. I repeat: _nothing_!"

Molly shrugged of her navy winter coat, untied her baby blue scarf and took off her black hat before walking to the roaring fireplace to melt of the snow.

"Everything looks fine, love. You need to have faith in yourself."

"No. _No._ Look at this sign. _Look _at it."

**Mortan Manor B&B**

At first, Molly didn't notice the mistake. Then she smiled.

"I'm pretty certain your last name is _Morstan_."

"_Tell my fucking imbecile of a brother_."

Just then, the sound of wood against wood banged, and the howl and coldness of the snowy iciness outside swept through the room. Both women shivered.

"Mary, I'm back- _ow_!" the tall brunette yelled as his sister continued punching every available body part on his anatomy.

"What's- what's her- _ow, dammit_- problem?"

Molly sighed "Look at the sign board."

Pushing Mary away, Michael walked to the offending sign. He stared at it in annoyance before, opening his mouth and closing it, thinking better of saying something.

"_You idiot._"

"Well…Mortan doesn't sound _that_ bad…"

"It sounds like a bloody _mortuary_."

"You don't have to say it like _that_."

"Okay, that's enough. Break it up, you two."

Molly came between the quarrelling siblings.

"Did you get the loo rolls?"

"Yes." Mike said, exasperated, shoving a shopping bag to his sister.

"You were supposed to get the _two ply_."

"They were out of _stock_!"

"Shut up! Both of you. Mike, fix the damn sign, ASAP and Mary, the guests can survive with normal toilet roll for awhile, can't they?"

The siblings glared silently at each other for a few moments, until Mike walked over and patted his younger sister's cheek.

"All's fair?"

"Whatever." She muttered, a smile giving Mary away.

"Your face is bloody freezing. Have you been out today?" Mike asked. Mary looked up.

"I just went down to the Village to pick up a few last minute things."

Molly sensed something off about that, but didn't think much of it.

.oOOo.

The doorbell sounded. Mary smoothed down her dress while Mike shrugged of his dark, dampened-by-snow-coat, ochre scarf and hat. He placed them on to a coat rack and opened the door, all in one incredible move.

Meanwhile, Molly placed her own clothes onto her bags and shoved them into a corner.

"Hullo!" a bubbly male voice sounded. The man it belonged to bounced into the room. "Oh thank you, _thank you_, how kind!" he trilled as Mike helped him out of his black winter coat and hat. His pale orange scarf stayed knotted around his neck.

"Hello, love, you must be...Frank, Frank Wright?"

"Ooooh yes, yes- that is me!" he answered as he bounded around the room, inspecting.

Molly grinned- she liked this man already.

"This Victorian furniture- absolutely exquisite! Is it a model, or an actual antique?" he inquired.

"Been in the family for generations." Mary answered.

"Oh wonderful! Brilliant! Absolutely fantastic! I do love antiques! Almost as much as- ooh! Are those Jammie Dodgers?"

The man- Frank- leapt over a sofa and halted next to the counter his eyes glinting as he grabbed one of the biscuits.

"Help yourself." Mary smiled.

"Bit of a free spirit, I should think." Mike said. "Hallelujah." Molly rolled her eyes at his sarcasm.

"I think he's positively adorable, therefore shut up." She stated.

"Well, you are set for the Rose Room." Mary said, looking up from her log book.

"I can show him the way." Molly offered, earning a grateful pat on the back by her elder cousin.

The pathologist moved to help with the bags but was stopped.

"Oh no no, my lady. I will manage on my own." Mr Wright said with a smile. Molly grinned back before looking to Mary.

"Which room is the Rose Room?"

"Your old guest room." Molly nodded.

"It doesn't have a four poster with covers does it?" Frank inquired "I do hate four posters with covered."

"We can assure you it is a normal queen-sized bed. No added _ornaments_." Mike answered. Mary shot him a glare.

"Come on, let's get to your room.

.oOOo.

After walking up a couple flights of stairs, Molly led the way down the corridor she'd run down many times before as a child. Unlocking a door to the third room down the left (there was an engraving of pink rose on it now), Molly walked in.

"Beautiful, this room is. Marvellous." Frank noted with a grin. Molly smiled.

"Well, the TV is over there, we have free Wifi here, and the bathroom comes with a tub. Hope you enjoy- dinner will be served at about seven thirty."

"Seven thirty? That gives me only two hours to be ready!" Molly chuckled.

"It's open 'til ten."

"Funny though, dinner at a bed and breakfast?"

"We're better than a B 'n' B." Molly answered with a grin before making her way down.

"-and you have woodworm, let me tell you."

Molly frowned, the voice of the elderly woman travelling up the flight of stairs. New guest, she supposed. She was right.

The old woman was stood by the fireplace, black felt hat dangled precariously over the fireplace while Mike left the room, a deep plum winter coat and soft yellow scarf in his arms.

"Hello." Molly greeted warmly "I'm Molly Hooper."

"And I couldn't care less." The old woman answered shrewdly. Molly took her hand away with a frown. Mary shrugged helplessly.

"Molly, this is Mrs Boyle. I was just going to show her to her room." She informed with a tight smile before yanking up Boyle's bags with obvious struggle.

After they left the room, Molly walked over to Mike, who was tapping the table.

"We _don't_ have woodworm."

"Pleasant lady she is, isn't she?" Molly said.

"You won't be-_lieve_ the half of it." He groaned "First day and I already have a headache."

"Don't we all."

The next guest was a young woman. She was stylish, far more than Molly cared to admit, in a coal black, from fitting winter coat, ochre scarf and cute black hat. Her dark hair was piled up in a neat messiness Molly hadn't deemed possible.

"Alana Casewell." She greeted. Her handshake was firm, borderline bone breaking. Molly shook her hand to get blood back in circulation once the death grip was over.

"Ms-Ms C-Casewell." Molly smiled, then frowned, at Mike's spluttering. She was a pretty girl, yes, but wasn't he in a relationship with that, cough, slut, cough, what's-her-face?

"You're in the Lotus Room, Ms Casewell." Molly told her as she signed in.

"Alana, or Lana, please." She said with a smile. Molly nodded.

"Of course. Here let me-"

"Molly, why don't you start on cocoa, I'll do the man-work here." Mike interrupted.

He grabbed Alana's bags and flashed a white grin before leading the woman up the stairs. Molly shook her head, laughing to herself.

Moments later, heels clacked down the carpeted wooden steps, followed by a breathless Mary.

"I swear I will kill that witch."

"Not a good idea to kill your guests."

"Well, trust me I may."

"I see why you need me here."

"Shut up."

Once again, as if on some kind of cue, the doorbell rang.

Again.

Mary groaned.

Once Mr Patchianno (if that's how it was spelled), a man with a distinctive foreign accent and ways, entered and was shown his room, both women finally rested on the sofa

"I want to make a good dinner. See what that old hag has to say about _that_. I'm about to get started. We're not meant to have any other guests, but ya know- keep a look out? And entertain the ones upstairs?"

"No problemo."

Molly was left alone to her won devices. She realised she hadn't gotten her own things to her own room yet. Grumbling, she forced herself up, grabbed her bags and trudged up to her room. Once she'd settled in, she changed out of her leggings and shirt and into a simple T-shirt and pair of frayed jeans.

Shivering in sudden coldness, she grabbed her sweater as well before leaving.

Walking into the kitchen, Molly stepped back in shock at the mess in the room. The once polished floors were now blanketed in white, vegetable shavings and oil,

"Bloody hell."

"Shut up."

"Shouldn't there be help? Like a _cook_ for example?"

Mary looked up from her work in exasperation.

"Another reason why I need you here." She said "Help's only arriving next week. The weather is just too horrible."

"I'll make some hot chocolate for all of us. It'll stall everyone for awhile."

Minutes later, Molly trudged into the sitting room, a tray full of steaming mugs in her hands. To her surprise, it seemed all the guests, and Mike, were in the lobby. Frank bounded towards her like a happy puppy.

"Cocoa!" Molly grinned as he grabbed a cup and took a gulp.

"Beautiful." He sighed. "Where is Ms Morstan?"

"Downstairs, preparing dinner." His eyes lit up.

"Dinner! Ooh I do love cooking!" he exclaimed "You don't suppose she'd need any help, would you?"

"She would actually. Just go down the front corridor, and take a left down the back stairs."

Frank bounced off. Molly walked forward.

"I'm sorry- I still haven't caught your name." Moly whirled around in surprise.

"Oh," she exclaimed to Frank, who'd popped his head back around the doorway "Molly. Molly Hooper."

"Nice to meet you, Molly, Molly Hooper."

Smiling to herself, the pathologist handed out drinks to each of the guests. Mike drank his under five minutes- a feat considering the drinks' temperatures. Molly took the time to learn about the new guests, including the ever-pleasant Mrs Boyle.

Alana Casewell was a woman in her late twenties. She'd grown up in London, but due to personal reasons as off the age of thirteen she restarted her life in Paris and never looked back. She was back to continue her studies in engineering. Despite a rather square jaw and harsh blonde hair, she was a pretty woman with an impeccable taste in fashion. She was also very, very nice, if not a little bit tough.

Mr Patchianno avoided the question of his nationality or even his current permanent residence like the plague. He was, however, a very jovial man with a love for books, books, Beethoven, and more books. He was in England for a holiday.

Mrs Boyle was a tough one to talk too.

"That boy is a queer."

"I'm sorry?"

"That boy. The lanky ginger. He's a queer." Molly frowned.  
"I'm sure Frank is anything but a queer."

"That's you youngsters these days. Anything passes for a man, queers are _normal_- what is the world coming too?"

It took everything in her power not to slap the woman.

Though she did find out that Mrs Boyle was a retired judge- and a good one at that, apparently.

"The best usually are the worst." Mike had said later. Molly thought about that statement. It was true, she thought, in some ways, with some people. Definitely not with all.

Dinner went by fairly okay. The food was wonderful, much to Mrs Boyle's disappointment- the only thing she had to complain about were a few burnt potato pieces. Later, the guests, instead of heading up to their rooms like Mike, Mary and Molly had expected, lounged around the lobby.

Mike left for awhile, claiming to want to wash up and change. Mary and Molly stayed with the guests and made small talk.

"He doesn't like me, does he?" Molly jump and turned.

"Sorry," Frank apologised "I startled you, I do that a lot."

"No problem." Molly smiled "What were you saying?"

"Your brother-"

"Cousin." Molly corrected

"Yes, well- he doesn't like me, does he." Molly looked up at the lanky ginger. He was very freckled and skinny. Textbook geek.

"Mike is the sort who doesn't sit well with people with higher energy levels than him, and his is at about twenty percent. Don't take it personally." Frank nodded.

"Neither does that old lady."

"I don't think she likes anyone."

"I don't really care. She's not a nice woman. No, not at all."

Molly was surprised by his sudden burst of anger, but it was quickly swept away with one of his grins.

"Well, I am absolutely exhausted. I think I'm going to hit the hay."

Molly grinned and wished him goodnight.

Mike re-entered as Frank left, a frown on his face.

"Bad news, folks," he called "there's been very heavy snowfall. I just got a call from the authorities- it's been deemed unsafe to leave the premises. Everyone in a twenty mile radius has to keep to the rules."

"So we've been snowed in?" Alana called.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Perfect." Mrs Boyle sniffed "just what I needed. Being holed up with you insolent folks in a building with wormwood and broken heaters."

With that, the ex-judge pushed herself up and ambled out of the room.

The other guests muttered goodnight as well and headed off to their separate rooms.

.oOOo.

Mike, Molly and Mary lounged on one of the sofas.

"So a week these lovelies." Molly started.

"One week with that bloody ginger."

"Hey," Mary protested "He's a bloody good cook and a perfectly splendid man."

"Exactly," Molly agreed "in my opinion, it's that Mrs Boyle we have to look out for."

"Old bitch she is." Mary said.

"No need to be rude, Mary."

"Shut up, Mike."

"No."

"Shut up."

"No."

"Um, excuse me?" All heads turned to the stairs. Frank stood, peering down. He immediately flushed red from the attention "Sorry to bother, I've seem to have lost my way."

Molly pushed herself up.

"That's all right." She answered "Night guys, I'm gonna turn in- Frank I'll show you to your room on the way, yeah?"

Frank and Molly walked up the stairs together.

"So what do you think of that murder?" Molly looked to him in surprise. _What a funny thing to ask_.

"What murder?"

"You haven't heard? Ms Casewell, myself and Mr Patch-Mr Patchi, uh, well, we were speaking of it earlier. That women strangled in her apartment. Lost her finger- ring a bell?"

The _three blind mice_ murder. Molly's eyes widened.

"That's been released to the media already?"

"Well, yes. So you do know about it."

"What does the news say about it?"

"Well, she died- strangled. Middle aged. I can't place her name, but her finger was cut off. They suspect a someone over five-five, and witnesses claim to have seen the suspect leave in a dark coat, light scarf and dark hat."

So the note and the fact that a serial killer was running loose hadn't been revealed.

"Why would you ask? Surely you know about the murder _through_ the media."

"Actually, no. I…work…with the NSY sometimes. I get a few details here and there, but nothing I can share, I'm afraid."

"That's quite alright." Frank said with a bright smile.

The pair walked on in companiable silence. They heard voices coming from behind them- Molly could make out Mary's.

"Well, here's your room." Molly said brightly, stopping outside the door with the engraved rose. "Look, I am right around the corner to the right, second door to the left- the Jasmine room. If you need any help-"

"Of course, thank you Ms Hooper."

"Molly is fine." She answered.

"Of course. Goodnight, Molly."

The voices were getting nearer and Molly could make out Mary's for sure and the others she knew but could not place. Her ears strained to listen; she was taken by surprised when she realised her hand was being lifted.

Frank pecked the knuckles of her right fingers delicately. Molly noticed metallic grey of his eyes. Speckles of blue softened their harshness. In the light it almost seemed-

"Oi!" Molly looked away, startled, to see Mary in front of her.

"Goodnight Molly, Ms Morstan." With that, Frank shut the door to his room.

"My God, you two were hitting it off." Mary whispered, not-to-softly.

"Nonsense, he was being a gentleman." Mary made a noise.

"Yeah, okay. And here I thought you had that thing going on with that detective bloke I have yet to meet." Molly stiffened and looked away immediately.

Since she arrived and three days before (when she started packing), not once, miraculously, did her thoughts move towards _him_. Four days of hard work just flushed itself down the loo.

"Oh wow, something happened, between you two, didn't it?"

"Not now, Mary. Why did you call out?" Mary's eyes widened and she made a noise, as if just remembering what her mission was.

"Right, see, the kitchen is a mess and I need to clean it up, but we have two new guests- sharing one room." She whispered "_two males_."

"So?"

"See, I asked- king or two singles, and the bloke immediately screamed _singles_. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" Molly rolled her eyes.

"Which room?"

"Lily- right next to yours. It has two queens. _Just in case._"

"Where are they?"

"Right there." Mary said, pointing a thumb behind her "Gotta go- love you. Goodnight!" with that she pecked Molly's cheek and fled.

"My cousin's gonna show you your room- hope you enjoy it. Please do call for any emergencies, her room's next door, and you know where mine and Mike's are."

"Of course, yeah, thank you, uh, Mary." Molly's eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth. Oh no. No. She knew that voice. No.

There was a few seconds of silence where Molly refused to turn around.

"Good_night_, Molly!" Mary called out pointedly.

Shit. Now she had to turn. She couldn't run away and hide. Or walk away briskly, cake her face with make up until unrecognisable and go back. Fuck. Holy shitting bloody sodding-

Steeling herself, Molly plastered a smile on her face and whirled around.

"Hello, I'm Molly Hooper, and you are?" she said to the one blue-eyed detective she came here to be away from. It was John who walked forward, uncertainly.

"Molly. I'm James. James Wilson. That's Simon Cartwright." He said shaking her hands with a smile.

Molly turned to Sherlock, whose eyes were burning into her.

"Great. Good to meet you. I'll show you to your room."

Mary nodded to herself and trudged down the steps.

She kept the grin up to the point where they turned the corner. She reached the door a good five seconds before they did and unlocked it, walked in and switched on the lights; she still had about three seconds to waste.

Avoiding the men's eyes, she walked through the room, hurriedly giving the tour.

"That's the TV." She said jutting a finger to the box in the corner "beds, remotes for whatever, that's the wardrobes- it comes with robes, over there is the bathroom and it comes with the tubs. Two singles, sorry, queens- Mary's idea of a joke- like you wanted."

With that she moved to leave, only to find her exit blocked.

"What are you doing here?" the baritone sent a shiver down her spine.

"I think _I_ should be asking you the same bloody thing, _Simon._"

Sherlock scowled.

"Why do you think? This is where the next murder will happen. Molly, you need to _leave_."

Both took a sharp intake of breath, realising that was the first time Sherlock had used her name since _that night_. Molly looked away and then back.

"I can't. We've been snowed in. No way in hell any of us are getting out and frankly, I don't know how you got _in_."

"Hey, you two, break it up." John said, coming in between them. "Look, I don't care, right now, what's going on between you two- it was much easier when you were that annoying joined-at-the-hip couple- but Sherlock is right, it isn't safe-" Sherlock made a triumphant noise "-but Molly is right as well" Molly let out a 'hah!' "she cant leave, neither can any off us, so we're going to have to deal with this like bloody adults. Understood?

Silence.

"Understood?"

"Yeah." Molly answered "Whatever."

She walked to the door, suddenly feeling very small. Wrapping her sweater around her and hugging herself she turned.

"Look, we'll keep it simple, alright?" she said "You two keep your investigation and whatnot away from me, or my family for that matter, and I will stay out of your way." She looked to Sherlock "You'd like that, wouldn't you."

Looking down, Molly embraced the long beat of silence. She opened the door and walked out, almost crashing into Mike.

"Well, my room's right next door- do knock if you need anything!" she said with false happiness.

Saying goodnight to Mike, Molly dragged herself to her room and crawled under the covers.

She couldn't even bring herself to think of the fact that she was in a place under investigation as a future murder scene.

No, a certain detective was all her mind focused on as she cried herself to sleep.

**Not much action in this chapter, just some build-up on these many OCs. Tell me what you think of them- I'd like to here feedback, seeing as I've never had so many originals in one story, definitely at one time.**

**Thanks again to my reviewers, and those who followed and faved as well- Jammie Dodgers for all of you :)**

**That textbox down there is empty and needs to be filled with your thoughts and/ or flames. **

**Love you all,**

**-Ash :)**


	3. One To Go

The next morning found a cranky, blotched-face, red-eyed Molly stumbling into the bathroom. She went through the daily motions robotically, her mind never leaving the two men next door.

After a hot shower, she changed into her clothes and walked over to the window. Pulling the curtains back, she stared out into the darkness of the 5 A.M sky. She shivered, suddenly feeling a breeze on her midriff. Glancing down, she noticed her window slightly ajar. Frowning, Molly shut and latched it- she was certain it was shut the night before. Shrugging, she pulled down the sleeves of her cotton blouse and grabbed her jumper and laptop, hoping for some peace in the library.

To her surprise, she heard voices as she hopped of the last step and into the lobby. Walking past the reception desk, she opened the door to the homely library and found the figures of Mrs Boyle and a certain blonde undercover blogger on the two armchairs.

"-and the heater wasn't working, _again_!" the old hag-cough-woman exclaimed.

"Really? It seemed to be working in our room, and definitely here and in the lobby."

"Well, the food is certainly sub-par." She sniffed.

"You can't really expect gourmet buffets in a Bed and Breakfast, now can you? I had supper last night- extremely homely food, and absolutely gracious hosts."

Mrs Boyle let out a snort.

"That woman doesn't even know what she's doing. I am certain this is her first go at hosting _anything_."

Molly let out a huff of annoyance. She stepped forwards, making herself known. What harm was it to hide from John? He was her friend, wasn't he?

"Mrs Boyle, I'd be happy to take note of any complaints you have and improve on them for a happier stay." She said, smiling sweetly.

Standing up ungracefully, Mrs Boyle let out a noise.

"Trust me, young lady- I will not be staying very long." Molly rolled her eyes.

"Honestly, miss, at the rate you're going, I don't think you will either!"

Molly gasped in surprise. Turning around she caught sight of the thin frame belonging to Frank leaning against the door. He let out a breathy chuckle at his own joke and wandered into the room.

"I say, this is a rather beautiful library. The acoustics, the colours-" he inhaled deeply, as if breathing the environment "-all just beautiful." He looked down at the pathologist "Good morning, Miss Molly."

Giggling, Molly returned the greeting, only to find herself talking to Frank's retreating back as he bounded of to explore the room.

"What an annoying little oddball." Mrs Boyle stated non-too-softly.

"I think he's rather interesting." John defended.

"Irritating, more like- men should be masculine, not bumbling, happy little girls." Molly frowned.

"Then the world would be a rather boring place, now wouldn't it, Mrs Boyle?"

"We wouldn't want _that_, now would we?"

Berating herself for doing so, Molly let out a small gasp at the new voice. That baritone was unmistakable, despite the joking mood it hadn't adopted since…before.

Oblivious to John's sudden avoidance of all glances and Molly's frozen stature, Mrs Boyle walked off with a sniff and a few mutterings under her breath.

A figure moved silently behind John.

"She doesn't like me much, does she?"

John jumped at the sound of Frank's voice so close to him, almost falling of the armchair. It was rather funny. Molly let out a snort of laughter just as the man behind her chuckled. Upon realising their unison, both stopped…unanimously.

"Oh dear, I am so, positively sorry. I do apologise, uh Mr-"

"Wilson." John grunted as he righted himself "James Wilson." He stood up and turned to face Frank. He stuck his hand out "No worries." He said with a smile.

"Frank Wright." The taller man answered, shaking the doctor's hand enthusiastically.

"I'm just gonna, uh, it look's like you're all up, so I'll just go check on breakfast."

"Oooh cooking! I'd love to help!" Frank called.

"Um, yeah, sure of course." Molly answered. She turned around to find herself nose to chest with the one and only Sherlock Holmes.

Her eyes trailed up the T-shirt under the dark leather jacket (he always looked dashing in leather), past the vast expanse of his neck and up to his eyes, taking in every miniscule detail. It had been sometime since she was this close to him. His icy gaze was burning down onto her.

"Oh _hello_- I don't believe we have met. Frank-"

"Wright, yes, I heard." Sherlock finished with a bright (fake) smile. Like that, the moment was over. As Frank moved to introduce himself, Molly stepped sideways, feeling unwanted tears prick the back of her eyes. _Oh lord, Molly stop it! Stop this now!_

Pushing back the tears, she felt the unwanted lump settle painfully at the back of her throat.

"Hey, thanks for earlier." Molly looked to John, who was now standing next to her, an arm on her shoulder. To anyone else, it was a friendly way of thanks, not a comforting pat.

"No problem, Mr Wilson." Molly smiled adding a reassuring nod for good measure.

"I hope my roommate and I won't be too much of a hassle, I understand you have a lot to take care of at the moment. If you need any help-"

"Of course. Thanks." Molly replied gratefully, the double meaning in the doctor's words clear between them.

Turning back to the other two as they finished their small talk, Molly noticed Sherlock's stare back on her. Biting her lip she turned and walked to the door, calling out for Frank- it was time to make breakfast.

.oOOo.

Molly had her breakfast in the comfort of her room and laptop. She'd snuck away quietly, noticed only by Sherlock, of course, and thankfully, she was undisturbed and in peace.

After hours of pointless internet surfing, Molly decided it was time to catch up with her softcopy reports for work. With a reluctant sigh, she opened up her work email. Within minutes, one could say she was in a trance.

Mary barged in, throwing Molly off track.

"You won't believe who just called on the landline."

"Mmm."

"Scotland Yard, that's who." Molly looked up in surprise.

"What?"

"Yeah, they called- apparently they're sending over a sergeant who is working on some murder case. He'll be here to ask a few questions or something."

Molly bit her lip, nodding. The coppers were coming _here_ of all places? Did Greg find a lead?

Maybe it had nothing to do with that Three Blind Mice incident. Maybe Sherlock was the 'sergeant'. Maybe she'd ask him about it.

Molly shook her head: maybe _not_. Like a good soldier, the pathologist returned her concentration to her work.

She was on the very last line of her final report (how poetic) when the internet crashed and burned in a metaphorical ball of flames. Molly let out a wail, gripping her head in her hands.

"_Shit_." She swore, immediately resorting to pushing every button on the keyboard in the hopes something would restart.

Thankfully, the online document had been saved seconds before the internet failure. Unfortunately, the Internet seemed to be gone for now. She raised her arms above her head and slapped them hard onto the mattress with an angry grunt. Flopping back onto her pillow, her legs still crossed, she ran a hand over her face after closing her eyes.

So much for an excuse to be cooped in her room. Now she'd have to go down and mingle.

.oOOo.

Frank, for all his hyperactivity and maturity of an eight year old on a chocolate sugar high, was a wonderfully kind-heartened man. Molly was certain she hadn't laughed so much with one person in a very long time. He was interesting and knew how to keep a conversation going. On top of it all, he was rather witty and quite good-looking, in a lanky, geeky way.

"I'm an architect." He'd told her.

"Really?" Molly asked, surprised "You look more like a-an accountant or something of the sort." Frank laughed loudly at her comment, earning himself a glare from the ever-grumpy Mrs Boyle.

"I've actually always wanted to be a doctor."

"Why didn't you go for it?" Frank's bright grin waned at her comment. Molly instantly feared she said something wrong.

"Family pressure, you can say." He answered vaguely "So, tell me the history of this wonderful home."

Molly talked about the Manor, all the while extremely apologetic and curious about Frank's reactions to her words. However, she wasn't a certain nosy, blue-eyed, extremely gorgeous detective, so she wasn't going to pry.

When the cursed doorbell sounded, Mary bolted across the hallway and to the door in a blur Molly almost couldn't process. She heard her breathless greetings of "Oh, hello there, you must be the sergeant we're meant to expect."

"Yes, ma'am, I am. Sergeant Paul Trotman." A male voice sounded. Footsteps approached the lobby, followed by Mary, who had a remarkably silly grin on her face. Once the sergeant walked in, anyone could see why.

He was averaged heighted, straight, dirty blonde hair tickled his collar. The blue of his eyes almost glowed against his tanned skin. A large chocolate winter coat, which he later removed, disguised a lean, toned body. His gaze scanned the room, resting on the couple on the sofa.

He grinned, teeth sparkling and straight.

"Good day, Sergeant Paul Trotman." He said, introducing himself.

Molly stood up, a flush already spreading across her face, one almost identical to her cousin's. They shared a glance that read _Holy shit!_ All over.

"Molly Hooper."

"Good to meet you Molly." He said, shaking her hand. Quickly shaking hands with Frank, Trotman turned back to Mary "I do need everyone gathered here, if it isn't too much trouble."

"Oh-Of course!" Mary babbled. Molly followed her out of the room. They were barely out of earshot when the burst into giggles.

"Oh my, if that's what they all look like, Molly you are one lucky person."

"They don't all look like that- I've never even met the man." Molly answered "Bit wow, he really is…wow."

"Mmhm, that body and his _hair_-"

They were interrupted when footsteps sounded on the stairs. Seconds later, John and Sherlock came into view. Molly swore silently- there was a miniscule chance that they didn't hear too much, but by the uncomfortable look on John's face and Sherlock's out-of-character poker face crushed that theory.

Oblivious to the new tension in the area, Mary spoke.

"Sorry for the inconvenience, but there's a copper down in the lobby, wanting a few questions. Nothing worrying, I'm sure." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"A copper? That's certainly interesting." He said faux-curiously "Say, where is the lobby again? I do apologise." He asked, throwing an apologetic smile as an extra.

"Uh, Molly'll show you. Molly, show 'em- I need to get the other's and I bet Mike's still asleep somewhere."

With that, Molly was suddenly left alone in a very uncomfortable situation. Even so, she knew it was not purely by chance. Folding her arms, she glared up at the detective before shoving past him.

"What do you want?"

A familiar hand on her shoulder stopped her and spun her around. With their height difference and Sherlock's added advantage of being further up the steps than she, he looked all the more domineering.

"A Sergeant in the lobby?"

"NSY called earlier saying they'd send one, and now one has showed up."

The detective straightened and gazed straight ahead. He was tensed. Molly noticed that muscle in his jaw jump as he clenched his teeth. He began walking down the stairs, hands buried deep in his pockets.

"What is-"

"The usual. Greg probably sent someone to check on Sherlock." John muttered. Molly chuckled.  
"Good luck, then." She offered as they followed the consultant.

.oOOo.

Frank was leaning against the doorway to the stairs as Molly and John entered. He stood up and moved to stand next to the pathologist.

"Did I miss anything?" she asked. Frank shook his head.

"He's waiting for everyone to get here."

John nodded to the two and moved to stand next to Sherlock by the fireplace. Mrs Boyle, crankier than ever now that she'd been disturbed was barely three feet away from the two, hogging the armchair that was closest to the hearth.

Mary entered followed closely by the foreign visitor whose name Molly couldn't remember for the life of her, Alana Casewell and a groggy Mike.

"Brilliant. Everyone has arrived." Trotman announced. Alana sat herself on one end of the large sofa, and Mike was quick to follow, to Molly's amusement. Mary sat herself on the last armchair. Molly moved to one of the stools at the reception desk. Frank claimed the one next to her.

"I'm sure you've all heard of the murder of Marion Rutherford."

Instantly there was a sea of murmurings in the room. With a quick clap of his hands, Trotman shushed them.

"We believe this is the first in a string of murders." Gasps echoed around the area "Marion Rutherford is the widow the late Arnold Whitaker. I am sure you are all aware of the 'Corrigan Case' as the media titled it?"

Molly's breath caught.

"Three children: Johnathan, Emma and Thomas Corrigan were adopted by Whitaker and his wife. The three were abused physically by Arnold, up to the point where the younger boy, at the age of eleven, committed suicide. Both Whitakers were convicted, but as the Mrs never laid a hand she was merely an accomplice. She was released fifteen months ago. Arnold died of a heart attack in prison ten months prior.

"The sister was adopted months after her brother's death and is currently unaccounted for, but was last documented to have moved away with her family. The brother is a military dropout, due to suspected mental illness. Evidence supports that he may be the killer."

There was silence for a few moments. Molly caught Mike's eyes, and then Mary's. Both had twin looks of worry etched on their faces. A shiver ran through Molly. Not again.

"So what I'd like to know," the inspector continued "is: is there anyone here, who in any shape or form, have any connections to this murder."

Silence fell onto the room as everyone glanced around at each other. Molly pulled her eyes away from her cousins' as she scanned the room. Trotman's eyebrow twitched.

"Understand that if you do, there is a high chance you are wanted by him."

Again, there was silence. Trotman sighed.

"This is my first time hearing of this case." A thickly accented voice spoke up. Mr Patchianno shrugged as he stepped forward "This is only my second time in England."

Trotman frowned, nodding and scribbling furiously in a notebook he produced.

"Good. This is a good start. Would anyone else like to volunteer anything? Ms Casewell, what about you?"

Looking up from her hands, Alana's eyes flitted nervously around the room until the landed on Trotman's. She looked away quickly.

"I was brought up in France." She muttered curtly. "I wasn't even here when it happened."

"I-I would have been in secondary when the case occurred. I remember reading about it in the news, but nothing more, I swear." Frank spoke up, standing up.

"What about you, Mr and Ms Morstan?"

"We heard about it on the news ages ago. Nothing to do with it." Mike answered.

"Are you certain? Whereabouts would the two of you have been?"

"I was in London."

"I can vouch for that." Molly spoke up. Trotman's startling eyes flickered towards her. Molly shifted.

"Ms Hooper, you are the Morstans' cousin, yes?" Molly nodded.

"And where might you work?" She opened her mouth to speak, when her gaze caught someone else's.

Sherlock shook his head and silently brought a lone finger to his lips. Molly's eyes lingered there until forcing them up to his. She nodded, understanding his intention.

"I work in a hospital in London. If you want to know, I was in university during the time of the incident."

Nodding Trotman kept his eyes on hers. Did he do that with everyone?

"Mrs Boyle?" A few long moments later, Trotman swivelled around. Molly exhaled a breath she hadn't realised she was holding.

"I have nothing to do with any of this." She answered briskly.

Taken aback by her harshness, Trotman nodded and moved on to the last two in the room.

"And you two? Uh, Mr Cartwright and Wilson?"

"I heard of the case, but I was stationed in Iraq at the time." John lied smoothly.

"I was just finished uni." Sherlock answered with a smile.

Trotman jotted down a few things in his notebook, then stashed it in his jacket pocket. He asked Mike to give him a tour of the manor, to which the latter obliged. Once the men left, Molly stood up and stretched her cramping muscles.

"This is all rather exciting, isn't it?" All eyes turned to Frank.  
"Exciting?" Mary asked "What could be so exciting about a killer on the loose?" she asked, fear creeping into her voice. "I-I need a break from all this." She muttered before trying to exit the room.

"Hey," Molly grabbed her arm "You all right?"

"Yeah, yeah- just need a bit of a lie down." Molly loosened her grip and nodded, letting her cousin leave.

"And that rhyme the murderer places at the bodies- it's all rather clever, I believe."

Molly shivered. Maybe Frank wasn't all he seemed. Who would find something like this exciting? Other than the man standing across her, of course. She looked at Sherlock, who was frowning, hands covering his mouth. His thinking pose, almost.

That's when it hit her.

"No one said anything about a rhyme left next to the body." Molly stated. Sherlock glanced up, eyebrow raised. He pulled his hand away from his mouth. His lip twitched with a slight smirk. Molly would've said he was impressed.

"Oh, uh, well. I-I overheard him speaking on his phone earlier. H-He mentioned something about it." He stuttered, before composing himself "Apparently, the murderer leaves a little rhyme: Three Blind Mice." He began humming the tune loudly enough for everyone to hear.

"Okay, that is enough." Mrs Boyle snapped.

"You needn't be rude about it." Frank answered, hurt. He left the room without another word. Molly made to follow when she felt a hand tug her into the library.

"What the- Sherlock, what are you- get off me!" she hissed, shoving the detective away.

"Ask her if she had anything to do with the Corrigan case."

"She already said that she doesn't, didn't she?" Sherlock scoffed

"It doesn't mean she was telling the truth. Don't be an idiot, Molly." Molly's eyes narrowed.

"Sherlock you don't to be so bloody rude." John intervened. He looked to Molly "Please, just ask? I think Sherlock's onto something."

Molly looked between the two men, before scowling and nodding.

"Fine." She muttered, before stalking back into the lobby.

.oOOo.

"Why would you want to know about being a judge?" Mrs Boyle asked suspiciously. Molly sighed. This was going to be tricky.

"It just seems really interesting."

"Don't lie to me, missy- I'm a judge."

Molly sighed. Time to take the direct approach.

"I think you had something to do with the Corrigan case." Mrs Boyle began to yell "I'm just curious, Mrs Boyle." Molly interrupted "I just want to know- I won't tell anyone. I promise."

"Mind your own business, you nosy woman!" Mrs Boyle snapped. Molly placed her hand on her own wrinkly palm.  
"Please, Mrs Boyle- I could be someone to talk to about it."

"Why would I want to-"

"Because the murderer's motive _is _the case."

Mrs Boyle's breath caught. Molly hit home. There was a moment of tense silence until the old woman broke it.

"I was the one who signed of the adoption. I knew the husband had a history of violence," she paused, her voice softening "but he was shown to have improved and what not."

"It wasn't your fault." Molly offered as she tried to process the information.  
"Damn right it wasn't." the ex-judge snapped. "How was I to know? I can't predict the future. It was unfortunate, what happened, but it wasn't my fault."

Molly spoke to Mrs Boyle for a few more minutes out of curtesy before taking her leave. She stopped outside her door, but glanced at the one beside hers. After an internal debate that lasted a grand total of thirty seconds, she walked to it and knocked.

The door unlocked and opened, but no one greeted her. Rolling her eyes, Molly stepped into Sherlock's room. As usual, John's area was completely neat, while Sherlock's was a war-zone of organised chaos. The toilet flushed; John walked out of the bathroom seconds later.

"Oh, hey Molly." He said in surprise before pulling her into a quick hug. "Done already?"

"She's good at being nice and comforting, which is all old women need to make them break, no matter who they are." Sherlock answered. Molly turned to him. His lean figure was silhouetted against the light coming from the window.

He looked out at the white view outside, hands clasped behind his back. He turned to look at her, his expression unreadable.

"What did you find out?"

"She was the one who verified the adoption of the children in the first place. I don't get it, does this mean-"

"I knew it." Sherlock interrupted, clapping his hands.

"If you knew why did you make me go?"

"I needed to double check."

With that, he turned his back to her. Molly stood awkwardly for a few seconds before making her way to the door.

"I'm sorry about him." John murmured as he showed her out.  
"There's nothing to be sorry about John, seriously." She answered. The doctor nodded before walking back into the room.

"Do you have to be so cruel to her?"

Molly left the key in the lock as she listened. She didn't mean too- John didn't shut the door. Not her fault.

"I am not. In fact, I am being kind, if anything."

"What did you or her say to each other. I don't get it."

"It isn't for me to say, John." Molly looked down, feeling the tears prick the back of her eyes. It was her fault, she decided a long time ago. If she hadn't opened her stupid mouth-

"Then at least stop being so mean. Make a fucking effort, for god's sake."

"I _can't_."

Molly gasped at the sudden outburst. There was silence for a few moments.

"Why not?" John asked, softly.

"Because, she made me do the one thing I have rarely ever done. I'm doubting myself, John. Not on any decisions- I'm doubting my _feelings_. "

"What dyu mean?" Sherlock sighed angrily. Molly could imagine him running his hand through his curls as he glared.

"I thought I felt one way about her, and now I've realised that I may not."

Again, there was silence. Molly imagined John attempting to understand. Hell, even she was.

"I-I don't- never mind."

"Sherlock."

Silence.

"Sherlock."

"I said _never mind, _John."

With that, the conversation was over.

Molly looked around, processing the new information. She glared at the key in the lock before yanking it out. She needed a drink.

Trudging down the stairs, she almost ran into Mary.

"Hey!" she called out "Are you okay?" The blonde turned, her eyes slightly red.

"Yeah I'm fine."

"Do you-"

"No. I'm not talking about that ever again. I can't Molly, I can't."

Molly looked at her cousin. As unhealthy as it was to keep things inside, there was no way the pathologist could get anything out of the blonde at this time.

"I'm heading down for a wine, or stronger. Care to join?"

"Guy troubles?"

"You can say."

The two walked down together. The passed the dark lobby and into the kitchen to raid the wine cooler.

Glasses in hand, they strolled back to the lobby.

"God it's dark." Mary complained. Molly left her side to switch on some lights. Blinking to adjust, Mary walked to the sofa.

Molly noticed the curtains to the main window open and reached out to close them. Then, Mary screamed.

Jumping, wine sloshing out of her glass, Molly whirled around to see Mary gasping as she held her chest. Her own glass was no longer in her hands, but Molly could see the rich red of the wine seeping onto the floor.

"Mary, what?" Molly asked as she walked to her now sobbing cousin.

"Oh my god is she-"

Molly hurriedly joined her cousin. She looked to where her cousin pointed and all breath left her.

There were sounds upstairs from the people who had heard Mary scream. Footsteps hurried down the stairs. Molly's eyes stayed transfixed on the ground.

"Oh my-"

A figure lay on its back, dress messy, eyes and mouth open in terror, hair sprawled like a broken halo.

Even without trying for a pulse, it was obvious that Mrs Boyle was dead.

**Bit of a long chapter. I wanted to split it, but then there'd have been one boring filler with no action. Hopefully this wasn't toooo bad, but I'd love any reviews about how good/bad/horrible/ put-down-your-pen-and-walk-way-it's-that-horrible it was. **

**I know the Sherlolly part of this is going quite slow, but it will get there, I promise- there's just a lot of development to get through right now. Hopefully, it'll be faster paced from now on.**

**See you ****soon!**

**-Ash :)**


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